


To Touch Sorrow

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Background Het, M/M, Slow Build, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quennar i Onótimo is an intimidating figure - dark and grim of manner, hardened by tragedy and shunned by many. Having not picked up a quill for years, he is a less than suitable prospect for a teacher.</p>
<p>Well. Let it never be said that Pengolodh was not determined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Touch Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Urloth (CollyWobbleKiwi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/gifts).



> My request:
> 
> Rating up to = NC-17
> 
> Requested pairing = Quennar i Onótimo/Pengolodh
> 
> Story elements = the old and the (relatively) young both have something to learn from one another. Fluff would be nice. Anything you can think of though really. I know this is a very random pairing.
> 
> Do NOT include = no details given
> 
> This never makes it into fluff territory, but overall I don't think it's as sad as the title implies. I admit this pairing threw me a little at the beginning, since I had to look up Quennar to see who he actually was xD Since there is literally zlich in the way of his character description and very little background, I basically made up the character I wanted to write. Hopefully everything is canon-compliant, though there admittedly wasn't much I thought I needed to background check. It descends into scholarly discussion which is pretty much based on my headcanon at one point, so advance warning/apologies for that.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, dear recip! Happy Ardour in August :D

Once again, it seemed Pengolodh was at odds with just about everyone in his life.

There had been yet another argument with his father about his decision to pursue the life of a scholar. It wasn’t sensible or fashionable, scholars weren’t required as warriors were, it wasted his skills – his father had a hundred objections to his choice. His mother’s opinion wavered, so she was no help. His grandfather, who was fast becoming the only one who supported him in his endeavour, had left some weeks ago to visit old friends in Barad Eithel, so he found himself combatting his father’s criticism and snide remarks alone.

To make everything worse, his tutor was frustrated with him _again_. “Sometimes I wonder if you truly understand the art of scholarship, Pengolodh,” Aradriel would sigh, usually while turning one of his unsatisfactory essays over in her hands.

He had tried asking her what she meant by such vague statements in the past, but the answer was inevitably even more indecipherable, so he usually resigned himself to nodding and promising to do better.

Had he been around, his best friend, Naros, would probably have urged him again to find himself a ‘better’ tutor. Naros had left to live in Dorthonion, though, and what with his father refusing to support him, Aradriel was the best tutor Pengolodh could afford. And she _did_ teach well. Most of the time.

Today Aradriel had set him to reading another one of the huge, rare and precious tomes she kept on a bookshelf at the back of her small study. It also appeared to be the least interesting tome she had, as it dealt exclusively with farming techniques. _This is probably punishment for my subpar performance in that essay she set me on Vanyar politics_ , Pengolodh thought bitterly.

Aradriel sat quietly on the other side of the room, reading through a thick wedge of parchment and occasionally taking notes. She hadn’t offered any information about the subject or author, which was another sign of her negative feeling toward him.

Pengolodh stared sullenly at the small timepiece on the wall. A rarity even in Vinyamar, he knew Aradriel had paid handsomely for it. He cursed it with all his might; he still had three hours of this torture left to endure.

“Pay attention,” Aradriel said without looking up from her reading.

Pengolodh, as he usual when frustrated, could not find it within himself to bite his tongue and not speak his mind. “Why did anyone bother carting this all the way from Valinor?” he burst out. “It has to be the driest piece of literature I have ever come across.”

Aradriel looked up and regarded him coolly. “Do you not think knowing the best way to feed ourselves is important?”

“Of course farming techniques are _important_ – to _farmers_! They are not, however, what I would call worthy of serious scholarly study.”

“Am I the teacher or are you?” Aradriel asked exasperatedly. Pengolodh sensed this was a rhetorical question, so he remained silent. Aradriel sighed and put down her parchment. “I think it is time you and I had a serious talk about your studies, Pengolodh,” she said.

Nerves settled in the bottom of Pengolodh’s stomach. That did not sound good. “Of course, if you wish me to read it, I will respect your will as my tutor,” he said, backtracking fast.

She pinned him with a glare. “I am not going to let you wriggle out of this with promises, my young student.” She sighed and looked away from him. “Truthfully, Pengolodh, you are not doing as badly as I might make it seem. You have a keen aptitude for learning, despite your impatience with certain important subjects. Your written style still needs a lot of work, but that is unsurprising for someone of your age.” She looked back to him. “I do not think I, however, am the best equipped scholar in Vinyamar to teach you.”

Pengolodh bit his lip. He had been open enough with Aradriel about his finance situation; she knew there was little chance of him being able to engage one of the true masters, such as those who served the king. “What with the situation with my father-” he began.

Aradriel held up a hand to stop him. “I understand your circumstances. You have been open with me, and I appreciate that it will be impossible for you to afford the master’s fees.” Her smile became slightly sly. “Patronage, however, is an entirely different matter.”

Pengolodh blinked. “Do you really think I could impress a master enough for them to take me on talent alone?”

Aradriel shrugged. “You will never know until you try. You will have a much better chance here in Vinyamar than anywhere else in Beleriand, as I am sure you know.”

Pengolodh nodded. Owing to its relative distance from the forces of the enemy, Vinyamar had become a haven for scholars. The only other elven settlement so removed was Estolad, but as that was more a collection of farming homesteads as opposed to the attractive, diverse and well-appointed city Prince Turgon had built up, it was no surprise the scholars had gravitated here.

“Do you have any idea whom I should approach?” Pengolodh asked.

Aradriel shrugged. “Just try for someone who won’t be put off by your origins. You know what snobs some of these dusty old relics can be; they like to keep it in the old families.” By which she meant, of course, those Noldor who hadn’t mixed their bloodlines with the local Sindar. “Perhaps…” she tapped her chin in thought for a moment, “try someone…unexpected.”

/

This, Pengolodh thought, was definitely unexpected.

It was also a little bit terrifying.

Instead of taking the path to Aradriel’s house that morning, Pengolodh had made his way in the opposite direction, towards the city walls. His directions had described the house he was looking for as ‘near the outskirts’; Pengolodh didn’t see how it could get any nearer, given that the tiny house was literally built into the tall white wall. 

He drew in a deep breath and gathered his courage before walking up and knocking on the small door, quickly so he didn’t have time to convince himself that this was a very bad idea.

There was a very long pause before the door opened. When it did, it revealed an imposing figure. He seemed impossibly tall to Pengolodh, his hair impossibly dark and his eyes so very old. He stared down at him, face impassive. “Can I help you?”

The question was said with less unfriendliness than Pengolodh had been expecting. Still, he felt incredibly awkward just coming out with what he wanted to ask.

Quennar I Onótimo had been a fairly respected scholar in his youth. He had written extensively on the reckoning of time and had penned annals and accounts of history – both subjects Pengolodh was fascinated by. He had, however, fallen out of favour. It was for this reason that Pengolodh suspected he might be more amiable to a student of lesser nobility and mixed heritage such as himself.

In the flesh, though, he was a lot more daunting than Pengolodh had anticipated.

“If you are another of the younglings Arnwen keeps sending after me, please kindly inform her that she will have her payment as soon as I have any coins to give her,” Quennar said with a dark scowl.

Pengolodh drew in a steadying breath. “That is, er, not what I came to talk about.”

Quennar quirked an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out then.”

Pengolodh searched for some way, any way, to make this sound less demanding. “I am suffering from the same affliction you seem to be,” he said, words quick with nerves. “That is, a lack of funds. I need someone to give me, er…patronage.”

Quennar looked surprised. He looked Pengolodh up and down, seeming to take his measure. “Forgive me, but you do not look like much of a swordsman.”

A swordsman? Whatever was he talking about? “No, I meant patronage in scholarship,” Pengolodh said quickly.

Quennar’s face seemed to shut down. His mouth pressed into a thin line. “No.”

Pengolodh blinked. “But you have not even-”

“I do not dabble in scholarly arts anymore,” Quennar said darkly. “I can be of no help to you.” With that, he stepped back and shut the door.

Pengolodh stood for a few moments, blinking in shock, then scowled and crossed his arms. “Well, good riddance, I suppose,” he muttered to himself.

/

Pengolodh’s search was not going as well as he had anticipated. It wasn’t that everyone had turned him down, exactly; some of the masters he had seen had promised him they would ‘think about it’. He hadn’t yet achieved a definite answer, though, and Aradriel’s comment kept ringing in his head; ‘unexpected’. He was, he thought, good at being audacious. He would just have to use that to his advantage.

Quennar, he discovered, regularly left Vinyamar for day trips out into the forest. Hunting, most people said was the reason, but they always looked disapproving when they said it. No one could say where exactly he went, so Pengolodh determined to follow him and find out. He didn’t quite know how this would fit into obtaining him as a teacher, but he could work that out later.

It was before dawn that Quennar left his small house. Pengolodh had been camped out in a small alleyway between the two houses opposite for most of the night, so he was cold enough to be awake when Quennar left, and followed him.

After leaving through the East Gate, Quennar turned toward the mountains. The foothills were lightly forested, good places for hunting. Pengolodh followed him, sneaking through the long grass and crouching behind boulders, until they reached the treeline where he swung up into the branches. Following Quennar here was much easier; he had been swinging through these canopies with his relatives on the Sindarin side of his family since he was small.

Quennar went a small way into the woods and then turned east again. He walked for a long time, periodically crouching down to inspect the ground, tracking something. He had a long bow slung over his back and a sword belted at his waist. Pengolodh had brought his own bow, just in case.

He followed Quennar through the forest for most of the day. He didn’t catch much; only a couple of hares, though he took a few shots at a stag that leapt out onto the path unexpectedly. He seemed to be tracking _something_ , though, and Pengolodh knew it couldn’t be hares. They didn’t leave large footprints like those Quennar was inspecting.

Quennar, he noticed, also had a habit of muttering to himself under his breath. It was impossible to make out what he was saying, but the few words Pengolodh caught were unfamiliar. He assumed it was Quenya.

It was late in the day when Quennar suddenly froze, then dropped into a crouch. Pengolodh froze too, darting out one hand to stabilize himself on the tree branch. Had Quennar heard something?

Quick as a startled bird, Quennar disappeared off the path and into the undergrowth. He was hidden from anyone passing, but Pengolodh could still him from his vantage point as he went down on one knee and slowly, very quietly, drew his sword.

Pengolodh felt a flash of fear. What was the danger, and where?

Within a few seconds, he heard something. The sound of something moving through the brush, something large. Moving slow, perhaps…attempting to be quiet? Breathing shallowly, Pengolodh reached and pulled his bow from his back, testing the string before knocking an arrow. Down below, he could see Quennar tense. Something was out there.

A black figure crept slowly out onto the path. Pengolodh forced himself not to gasp. An orc. A small one, dressed in light armour; a scout?

Something moving caught his eye below. He glanced down and almost fell out of the tree; Quennar was looking up, staring straight at him. When he got over his shock, he realized the other elf was motioning towards the orc. Pengolodh frowned in confusion. Quennar rolled his eyes and mimed drawing back a bow, then motioned towards the orc again.

_Right,_ Pengolodh though, embarrassed, then drew back the string and took aim. The orc was still, its head raised, sniffing at the air. Pengolodh had a perfect shot at its throat. He took one steadying breath in, held it, and then released.

The orc barely made a sound as the arrow hit. It jerked, its face contorting, and then fell to the ground with a muffled thump.

Pengolodh smiled triumphantly. He made as if to start climbing down, knowing that his ruse was up and he might as well walk on the ground, but he caught Quennar making a backward and forward motion in front of his throat with a flat palm. Stop. Pengolodh froze again. Were there more?

He held still for a long time, and Quennar below did the same. Within about a minute Pengolodh heard what he had been longing not to; the sound of more feet stamping through the brush. He gripped his bow tightly.

Quennar half stood, looking up at him, and made a firm motion towards the tree. Pengolodh caught his meaning; stay there or else. Well, that suited him fine. It would be easier to aim from up here. When he nodded, Quennar went back onto one knee and resumed peering through the bush in front of him.

The other orcs soon appeared on the pathway. They crowded around their fallen companion for a few moments, growling and muttering to each other, and then began to fan out. Pengolodh glanced down at Quennar, who hadn’t moved. What did he intend to do?

When an orc came close to his hiding spot, Quennar gripped his sword tighter and without warning suddenly burst out of the bushes, swinging towards the nearest orc. The orc fell to Quennar’s blade without a sound, while the others screeched and roared as they rushed toward him.

Pengolodh breathed deeply. He’d never been in a proper skirmish before. He’d gained his skill through practise on the range and friendly competition, mostly with his many cousins. Still, he took a deep breath and raised his bow, knocking another arrow and picking an orc to aim at, one of those closest to Quennar. He’d had some practise with moving targets before, mostly someone throwing something for him to hit, but it had never been as important as this.

His targets had never been _armoured_ before either, he thought as he watched with frustration as his first arrow bounced off the orc’s breastplate. The creature growled and looked up, but Quennar cut it down before it could do more. The other elf was frighteningly efficient and quick with his sword, parrying and slashing with ease. He had obviously done this many times.

Still, he might get a lucky hit. He drew another arrow and aimed, managing to get an unarmoured spot on a nearby orc’s arm. It hissed, flinching, which gave Quennar the opening he needed to run it through.

He had never had any practise reloading and drawing as fast as this, Pengolodh thought frantically, heart pounding in his chest. Another one of the orcs had a small bow, which it was drawing back and aiming toward the trees; Pengolodh thought he was fairly camouflaged, but he couldn’t be sure. Down below Quennar shouted something unintelligible, though the concern and urgency was obvious. Pengolodh drew and aimed at the orc with the bow, aiming at the face, which was uncovered. Even if he couldn’t get the eye, a hit in the face would disable it, wouldn’t it?

His arrow hit the orc squarely in the middle of the forehead, and it dropped backwards, face going slack. Pengolodh tamped down on his flash of triumph and drew another arrow, aiming for an orc which was furiously raining blows that Quennar was parrying. A dangerous shot, but filled with elation after his success, Pengolodh thought he could make it.

The arrow was aimed at the throat, but the orc raised its arm at the last moment and it lodged in its forearm. It howled, pausing, and Quennar slashed out at it.

_I do not always have to make a killing shot,_ Pengolodh thought to himself. _Just disable them for Quennar. Well, so long as I do not hit_ Quennar _, that is._

He only managed to take down one more orc on his own; the other few he landed hits on, but Quennar finished them off. When the clearing was silent again – eerily silent, Pengolodh thought, as he had never been in the forest without some sound of birdsong or animal life – Quennar stood still in the centre, breathing hard. Neither of them moved for several minutes, until Quennar turned slowly, looked up at him and then raised one arm, beckoning ominously.

Pengolodh swallowed nervously. In the elation of his success, he had forgotten that he wasn’t supposed to be here.

When he landed on the ground and came to stand in front of Quennar, the other elf looked him up and down for several long, silent, awkward moments. Eventually he said slowly, “Tell me; with an aim like that, why do you wish to be a scholar?”

Pengolodh had to keep himself from frowning. He heard the same from his father all the time. “I want to be a scholar because it interests me. I have a passion for it. I _like_ it. Does the reason need to be any more complicated than that?”

Slowly, a smile spread over Quennar’s face. “No,” he said softly, “the reason need be no more complicated than that.” He bent and wiped off his blade on the rough tunic of a fallen orc. “Still,” he said as he was preoccupied with his task, “you should at least consider offering your services to the reserve guard. With a bit of training, you could excel.”

“That is said of both my natural talent and my chosen path.”

Quennar looked up at him, something that Pengolodh hoped was humour flashing in his eyes. After a moment he straightened, slowly sheathing his sword. “It is a very strange choice, coming to me,” he said softly. “Has no one told I gave up the life of a scholar?”

“I know you have not written for years,” Pengolodh said. “But any skill once excelled in so highly can surely not have been forgotten?”

Quennar looked down. “No,” he said, so quiet Pengolodh could barely hear him. “I have not forgotten.” Then he looked up again and said, louder, “Why me, then? Novelty?”

“I need someone who will take me on talent alone. None of the other masters are keen,” Pengolodh said honestly. “Too much of a rough diamond for them, I think.”

“And the reason for this is? A late start? Subpar tutorship?”

“Subpar finances,” Pengolodh muttered, looking away.

“Ah.” Quennar made no more comment on it than that. He looked down at the ring of corpses by their feet. “Perhaps this is not the best place to talk. And I need some time to think.” He glanced toward the western horizon. “Also, it is getting dark, and we do not want to be out after night falls. We must hasten back to Vinyamar.”

Pengolodh definitely agreed, so they set out back toward the city. Quennar said little on the journey back, speaking only to keep Pengolodh on the correct path. He seemed deep in thought, withdrawn into himself.

They reached the city gate just before sundown; the guards shook their heads as they passed. “Told you before not to stay out so late, Quennar!” one of them called down from the wall. Quennar acknowledged his words with a vague wave.

“You often go hunting beyond the walls?” Pengolodh asked as they turned into the street that would lead them back to Quennar’s home.

Quennar nodded without comment. When they reached his door he paused, his hand on the handle, and then turned back to Pengolodh with a frown. “You truly wish to learn scholarship from me? Not swordsmanship?”

Pengolodh frowned too. “I thought we had- I mean, yes, I do.”

Quennar sighed heavily. “Fine. It is against my better judgment, but if you are so determined, I suppose I can humour you with a chance.” He paused for a moment, giving Pengolodh another of his considering looks, and then said, “Be here just after sunrise. Do not be late.” Without another word, he disappeared inside.

Out in the street, Pengolodh had to pause in silence for a few moments to allow what had just happened to sink in. Then a brilliant smile spread across his face.  

/

Quennar’s teaching style turned out to be somewhat different than Aradriel’s.

Firstly, Quennar never asked him to write essays. In fact, Quennar hardly asked him to write at all; most of Pengolodh’s time was taken up with reading. “Reading is the foundation of both knowledge and writing,” Quennar would say quietly. “Once you have enough experience in one, then will the other follow.”

The only time Pengolodh was allowed to write was when he practised penmanship. Quennar had placed a huge tome in front of him one morning, which Pengolodh fully expected to be set to reading, but instead Quennar had also handed him a quill and some parchment. “Copy the words,” he said, “Practise making the shaping of them perfect.”

Pengolodh had opened the book and paused, staring at the words. “This is in Quenya,” he said after a few moments.

“It is,” Quennar had said mildly.

“My education is rather incomplete in this area,” Pengolodh admitted, “My previous teacher had only three Quenya books. My comprehension of the written language is horrible, to put it mildly.”

“That will work to your advantage,” Quennar had said, “for you will be able to focus more on the perfection of the shape if you cannot be distracted by the meaning of the words. And once you have the shape of the words, you may also find you are aware of their meaning.”

This had, Pengolodh admitted, turned out to be true. His penmanship improved even as his knowledge of written Quenya did.

Quennar encouraged him often to ask questions, though his intimidating manner and his scorn of irrelevant chatter made Pengolodh think carefully how to phrase each thing he asked – which again, he thought on later reflection, was probably all part of Quennar’s plan. His penmanship lessons brought one question to light, and he thought for a long time about it before bringing it to Quennar’s attention.

Occasionally they would visit one of the windswept terraces that poked out from the seawall overlooking the cliffs. Other scholars shunned them due to the bother of keeping papers straight in the wind, but the books Pengolodh brought to read were more than heavy enough to stay still. They would sit at one of the huge stone tables that had been hewn roughly from the dark grey rock of the cliffs below, and Pengolodh would absorb himself in reading while Quennar sat in silence, watching the sea.

Pengolodh glanced up at him, watching for a few moments before clearing his throat. “Why is it,” he began, “that Quenya has become a language of scholarship here, even while it is banned?”

Quennar turned slowly to look at him. “Tell me,” he said after a few moments, “who is the king in Vinyamar?”

“Turgon,” Pengolodh answered, confused.

“And what is the native tongue of King Turgon’s people, the Noldor?”

“Quenya.”

Quennar nodded slowly. “And the majority of scholars here are Noldor. Thus, they use their native tongue as their language for books and discussion.”

“So they wilfully ignore the ban?” Pengolodh asked, frowning.

An expression that held the hint of sneer came onto Quennar’s face. “Elu Thingol may think himself King of all Beleriand, but he has not the power to truly enforce his ban. What can he do to the scholars here? What leverage can he impose on the King? Their diplomatic relations are almost non-existent as it is. If Turgon will not stop them using Quenya, they are free to.”

“But the people observe the ban in daily life,” Pengolodh pointed out.

“Indeed. The power of Thingol is over his own people.” Quennar frowned. “The Sindar heed his ban and do not learn Quenya, so the Noldor learn and speak Sindarin to communicate. But do you truly think all Noldor speak Sindarin in their own homes?”

“I… do not know,” Pengolodh said slowly.

“Well, it is a known fact that the King and many of the noble families do not. The High King himself does not speak Sindarin to his family and closest friends. They say the High Speech is spoken by all Noldor in the east, among the Fëanorians, which is unsurprising. They have ever been mindful of only their own counsel.” Quennar turned his gaze back out to sea. “The people speak the language that makes them feel at home,” he said quietly, a slightly wistful expression coming over his face.

“Do you miss it?” Pengolodh asked before he could stop himself. Quennar turned back to him, expression inscrutable, and Pengolodh rushed to apologise. “Forgive me, that was too personal, I-”

“Would you miss Vinyamar if you travelled far away?” Quennar interrupted.

Pengolodh nodded. “I- yes. I would.”

Quennar turned back to the sea. “And so I miss my own home.”

Pengolodh burned with other questions – had he left people behind, what was Valinor like, what did he remember of their departure – but he knew better than to pry. Quennar would remain to him a mystery, he thought, as impassive and unknowable as his expression when he looked out on the waves.

/

Despite his promise to teach Pengolodh, Quennar didn’t stop his trips into the forest. Pengolodh had learnt by now that people spoke disapprovingly of this habit because Quennar never went looking for game, and he rarely came back with it. Pengolodh desperately wanted to ask why Quennar was so insistent on hunting orcs, but like his background, family and why he had given up scholarship, that was one of the things that just didn’t talk about.

One morning, instead of him coming to Quennar as usual, Quennar came to him.

Pengolodh was finishing a rushed breakfast, the cook chiding him for being late, when a knock sounded on the main door. Pengolodh ignored it and continuing going over the notes he had made from his book last night, which Quennar would expect to discuss today. Thus he jumped when their butler rather nervously led a tall and familiar figure into the kitchen.

After a second of stunned silence, Pengolodh jumped up from the table and sketched a bow. “Master Quennar, um, what a surprise.” When Quennar said nothing Pengolodh rushed to fill the silence by asking, “How did you find my house?”

He winced at Quennar’s raised eyebrow. “I asked for directions,” his teacher said obtusely. “Come, get dressed for the outdoors. We will not be inside today.” Surprised, Pengolodh jumped up to obey. “And bring your weapon,” he heard Quennar call as he bounded toward the stairs.

_His weapon?_ Pengolodh thought as he was getting dressed. Surely Quennar didn’t mean to take him on one of his hunting trips.

When he got back to the kitchen his mother had appeared, and was eyeing Quennar warily. “Mother,” Pengolodh said, surprised. She wasn’t usually up this early. “Have you, er, been introduced?” he asked, waving toward Quennar.

His mother nodded stiffly. “Once or twice,” she said quietly.

“Forgive me for not staying, my lady, but we must be off. We have a long way to go.”

His mother nodded, then turned to face him. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise. “I thought you were being taught scholarship, Pengolodh?”

“A good scholar sharpens their mind, but does not forget their body,” Quennar said before Pengolodh could answer.

His mother smiled slightly without much humour. “Well, at least your father will be pleased.”

When they had passed the eastern gate, Quennar said quietly, “I take it from your mother’s comment that your father is opposed to your chosen career.”

Pengolodh scowled at the woods instead of looking at Quennar. “He would much prefer it if I focused on leading men into battle.”

“Indeed.” Quennar didn’t comment any more on it. Pengolodh had decided that was one of the things he liked about him; he didn’t linger on subjects that were obviously uncomfortable.

Pengolodh moved the conversation on. “Did you mean what you said to my mother?” he asked. “About sharpening the body as well as the mind?”

“I did,” Quennar said, looking ahead toward the forest. “One must be prepared for anything, especially in this kind of environment.”

Pengolodh was quiet for a long time, thinking. “Surely the same thing did not apply in Valinor,” he said slowly. “There was no danger there.”

“But there is danger here,” Quennar said. “The key to survival, Pengolodh, is adaptation. You cannot move forward if you cling too stubbornly to the past.” He sighed. “This is something I feel many scholars do not understand.”

“They do not want to move forward?”

Quennar nodded slowly. “The past is an important teacher, but we cannot stay there forever.”

“But surely the scholars want us to survive? They understand that Beleriand is different to Valinor, and they we have to change the way we live to defend ourselves?”

Quennar smiled slightly. “I am not really talking about our survival as a people, Pengolodh. We have King Turgon and High King Fingolfin to worry over that, and they are not fools. No, I am talking about the survival of scholarship itself.”

“The survival of scholarship…” Pengolodh questioned slowly.

“This is a more dangerous world, Pengolodh, for all that some feel so safe behind the walls of the city, far from the enemy. We cannot take the same liberties here as we did in Aman. Restricting our knowledge to such a small group, entrusting so much to the fragility of paper…the smaller the sphere of knowledge, the easier it is to destroy.”

“So you are saying…the people in general should know more about what scholars learn?” Pengolodh asked, brow furrowed.

“Do you not think everyone would gain something from knowing how to read, how to write, about their history?”

Pengolodh nodded. “But the scholars oppose this view?”

“Scholars are often afraid of change, and they cling to what separates them from the common people. They do not understand that teaching the populace would not make their role obsolete. A merchant may be able to make time to read books on history, but he will never be as versed as master historian. There would be no need for scholars to disappear; after all, someone still has to write the records.”

“And the fragility of paper? What do we do about that?”

Quennar sighed. “That is the harder task. So much information may be stored in a book, far more than anyone could remember or recite through oral history. I suppose we simply have to hope that Vinyamar and her great library remain safe.”

After a few moments of silence, Pengolodh tentatively asked, “Is…is this what made you give up scholarship? The disapproval of other scholars for your views?”

To his great surprise, Quennar laughed. “No, no. I espoused views such as this when we back in Aman. People did not like it then, but I was passionate in my campaign. Now, though…” A dark shadow seemed to pass over his face. “Well, now things are different.” He looked ahead. “Here, we have almost arrived. We should be silent in the wood, lest something sneak up on us unawares.”

Pengolodh nodded silently and followed him under the trees.

/

Over the months, Pengolodh’s skill in battle grew. Quennar still made him hide in the treetops when they attacked bands of orcs, worried for his safety on the ground with only a bow, but Pengolodh was getting better at taking down orcs on his own. More than that, he sometimes found he even enjoyed the chance to get away from the city and the endless books, to walk in the forest again. They often walked great lengths before they came across orc patrols, and sometimes never saw them at all.

In the realm of scholarship he also advanced. Quennar began making him write small pieces, most of which he criticized mercilessly, but to Pengolodh even being allowed to write felt like progress. The one thing Quennar did compliment was his handwriting. “Some scholars think it a vanity to spend time improving your penmanship, but what use is there in writing if no one else can read it?” Quennar would comment.

Pengolodh found his relationship with Quennar became warmer, too. The older elf was never quite at ease, it seemed, and part of Pengolodh wondered if he ever would be, with anyone. There was some dark sorrow at his heart that he seemed unable to let go of, that kept him aloof from most others. Pengolodh had never asked what it was, though he wanted to. Instead they had lively debates and long discussions, and sometimes even shared a joke. Their relationship had blossomed into something Pengolodh could tentatively call friendship, and he was happy about that.

He had been two years under Quennar’s guidance when his best friend Naros announced via letter that he and his family would be returning to Vinyamar, to visit family and attend the Midwinter festival. Pengolodh went about daily business in a state of excitement for the two weeks between receiving the letter and Naros’ predicted arrival, setting to tasks with such cheer that even Quennar raised a surprised eyebrow.

The morning Naros was due to arrive dawned bitterly cold, with a chill breeze rushing in from the east. Pengolodh had begged a morning off from his studies and Quennar had granted it with a small smile, telling him to enjoy the reunion with his friend. Waiting by the northern gate, Pengolodh pulled his cloak tighter around him and tried to quell his shivering.

His grandfather, who had just returned from another of his frequent forays into the wider world, was waiting with him. His wife and Naros’ maternal grandmother had been great friends, and though Pengolodh’s grandmother had died many years before, their families had not grown apart. Pengolodh had wept over their departure for Dorthonion three years ago, but that was all forgotten with the chance to see them again.

His grandfather smiled and pointed. “Here they come, look, Pengolodh.”

Pengolodh shaded his eyes against the sun’s glare off the snow, and looked at the distant hill. The dark snake of the road wound upward, and just below the crest of the ridge a group could be seen, moving slowly. He smiled. “I see them, grandfather. They are a long way off still.”

His grandfather nodded. “Perhaps you should get your parents. It will be a long wait here in the cold.”

Pengolodh didn’t protest; the day was unusually freezing. By the time he had collected his parents and brought them back, Naros’ party were almost at the gate. His mother scolded her father-in-law gently for remaining in the cold, but he waved her off when the first cart drew up to the gate and a tall, smiling figure swung down from it, hailing them and waving; Naros’ grandfather.

While his family rushed forward to greet him, Pengolodh set off to find Naros. He didn’t have to look far; his friend’s bright silver hair was instantly visible as he climbed down from another cart, laughing with someone who was still inside. He turned sharply when Pengolodh called his name, and a wide smile spread over his face as he came closer. They embraced, and Naros squeezed him tightly. “Pengolodh,” he said warmly, “It has been far too long.”

Pengolodh grinned as they pulled apart. “Three whole years! Dorthonion must have been more exciting than you predicted.”

Instead of the grimace Pengolodh expected, Naros smiled. “You may be surprised to hear it, but I like Dorthonion a lot more than I expected too.”

Pengolodh laughed. “What, I wonder, is so diverting there so as to have caught your attention?”

Naros laughed with him. “I would not call it exciting, exactly; in fact it is just the opposite. It is…peaceful.”

Pengolodh raised an eyebrow. “Which you have suddenly come to enjoy?”

“I had some help.” Naros walked back a few paces and extended a hand into the cart he had climbed down from. After a few seconds, a hand took his, and he helped a graceful young lady down from the cart, her face hidden by thick black hair. After regaining her footing, the young woman turned to face him and smiled. She was pretty, though not as stunning as the types Naros had favoured when he lived in Vinyamar.

Pengolodh snorted. “Ah, _now_ I see the attraction of Dorthonion.”

Naros took her arm. “Pengolodh, may I introduce my wife, Írailin.”

“Your wife?” Pengolodh exclaimed. Quickly recovering his composure, he stammered, “Er, I mean, very nice to meet you.”

Both Naros and Írailin laughed loudly. “I knew that would throw you off!” Naros crowed. “You should have seen your face!”

Pengolodh scowled at him. “You could have told me in your letter.”

“I told him he should,” Írailin said, shaking her head, “But he would not be persuaded.” She gave Pengolodh a sympathetic smile. “I hope you will not be too angry with him, though he is a scoundrel.”

Pengolodh returned her smile. “He is, but I am used to it, unfortunately.” A voice sounded behind them; it was Pengolodh’s father, calling to them. “I imagine father will insist you come to visit right away,” Pengolodh said with a smile.

“We would like nothing better,” Naros grinned.

/

The day of the Midwinter festival felt like one of the coldest Pengolodh had ever experienced. He had to drag himself reluctantly from the warm cocoon of his blankets, earlier than he would have liked, to make preparations for the day.

He had the day off from studies, as was customary. A private family lunch was being held, and in the evening they would join the many revellers in the streets and squares to dance and sing and eat the delicacies on offer. It was a day all looked forward to, and the cold would persuade no one to stay indoors.

He and Naros had been up until the early hours the night before, talking about what had happened to them since they’d been apart. Naros had narrated the story of his meeting, courtship and marriage to Írailin with a small, fond smile. “Her father was not very keen at first,” he said. “One of those stuffy old-blood Noldor types, you know. But my family are noble enough, even if we are Sindar, so that won him over.”

“And then you had to win Írailin over,” Pengolodh said with a grin.

“Not an easy task, I tell you,” Naros said darkly, and they both laughed.

Naros had been surprised and intrigued when Pengolodh told him about Quennar. “I suppose it is unfortunate you moved on from the lovely Aradriel,” he said. “I swear she had an eye for you.”

“In my dreams, perhaps,” Pengolodh laughed.

Naros looked at him with consideration. “So there has been no one, then, while I have been away?”

Pengolodh shook his head. “I have been focused on my studies.”

Naros chuckled. “You know, when scholars say that, it always leads me to suspect there is something more going on.”

Pengolodh gave him a curious look. “Something more? With what?”

“Well.” Naros sat back and gave him a long look. “You said this Quennar is tall and dark. Is he handsome too?”

Pengolodh laughed. “That is an outrageous question, Naros!”

“Is it? Why?” Naros leant forward, a glimmer of interest in his eyes.

“Firstly, because Quennar does not strike me as the romantic type, and secondly because he is so much older than me. It would be…inappropriate.”

Naros gave a bark of laughter. “Ha! That is the Noldor in you talking. The Sindar do not have any such compunctions.”

“Well, Quennar is most definitely a Noldor, of noble and ancient lineage, or so I am led to believe,” Pengolodh said primly. “Besides, I do not feel that way about him.”

Naros snorted. “Pfft. How boring.”

His friend was still very curious, so Pengolodh promised that they would be introduced. He had heard from Quennar’s own lips that the older elf would be attending the festival, so Pengolodh hoped they could just find him there.

It was an almost wild night; Írailin and Naros were very similar in temperament, both given to large displays of emotion, drinking overmuch and dancing as often as possible. Írailin herself Pengolodh came to know a little better through the course of the evening, and he admired her wit and how quick she was to smile.

They had just left him to dance again – he had protested tired feet and excused himself – when he spotted a familiar tall figure sitting alone just outside the reach of the firelight. Pengolodh stood and went over. “Midwinter greetings, Master Quennar,” he said respectfully when he reached him.

The rather dour gaze Quennar turned on him softened somewhat when he saw who it was. “It is only you, Pengolodh,” he said quietly. “Yes, Midwinter greetings. Forgive me for not coming to seek you out; I fear I am no good company this evening.”

Hesitantly, Pengolodh sat down next to him. “Are you alright?”

“Am I ever?” Quennar asked darkly, staring at the flames instead of at him. Then he looked down at his cup, and set it decidedly on the table next to him. “Forgive me, I have had too much of this tonight.”

“Midwinter is usually a time for joy,” Pengolodh said quietly. “It does not seem fair for you to be sorrowful.”

“But it is not unusual, is it?” Quennar said, snorting self-deprecatingly. He stared at the fire for a long time, Pengolodh silent and unsure what to say beside him, before he said, quieter, “I have dark memories of Midwinter. Many of us died in the coldest part of the year.”

“On the ice,” Pengolodh said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Perhaps others do not hurt so much, surrounded by newfound friends and family,” Quennar said, his face losing the sharp edges of bitterness, his eyes deep with a seemingly unknowable pain. “But I have none of that. I lost everything to that ice, to that darkness.” He closed his eyes. “I come to the festival each year only because being alone on this night would be too much for me to bear.”

They sat in silence for a long time before Pengolodh said quietly, “The orcs, the hunting…”

“Something tangible,” Quennar said stiffly, still not looking at him. “A threat I can fight with a sword. No blade could cut the wind, nor slay the ice’s chill. I slay the orcs like penance, because I cannot forgive, and I am alone because I am weighed down with sorrow, for I cannot forget.”

Pengolodh opened his mouth, but he could not find anything to say. Saying something like ‘you have me’ felt too trite, because really, what was he to Quennar? Nothing nearly so important as those he had lost – and that in itself hurt in a way Pengolodh couldn’t explain.

Quennar stood suddenly. “Forgive me for burdening you,” he said gruffly, turning away. “I will see you in two days. Happy Midwinter.”

Pengolodh stood, extended a hand, but Quennar was gone like a shadow into the darkness.

He stood there a long time before he heard his name called behind him. Turning, he saw Naros and Írailin coming toward him. “Come, you promised to introduce us to your teacher, Pengolodh,” Naros said, grinning. “Do we not get to meet him?”

“He just left,” Pengolodh said quietly. “I do not think he was in the mood for talking.”

Naros frowned slightly. “What is wrong, Pengolodh? You look all unhappy all of a sudden.”

Pengolodh turned to look down the street where Quennar had disappeared. “Some things became clear to me that were hidden before,” he said quietly. Then he turned back to his friends. “Forgive me; I fear I have lost my cheer for this evening. I will retire.”

/

Pengolodh never mentioned the things Quennar had told him at the festival, but somehow he felt they were closer for it. Quennar often seemed less distant, and tales of his old life were somewhat more forthcoming, from which Pengolodh felt he knew him better. He was more than a teacher; he was a friend, and if Naros’ suspicions – once he did eventually meet Quennar – were to be believed, he was more than that. Pengolodh didn’t think on it; he didn’t need that kind of complication. 

Pengolodh finally left Quennar’s tutelage when he was taken on by the office of the King as a scribe. There had, apparently, been objections to his education and lineage, but the old master who had offered him the position was one of the few who did not stand on ceremony or old tradition. In fact, he seemed determined to go against both, which sometimes led Pengolodh to suspect he had been hired on the certainty of causing a scandal. Still, it was a position and it was better than nothing.

Quennar came to meet him before he left for his first day. “I have never actually had a student who amounted to much,” he admitted quietly as they walked together towards the halls of the King. “I forsee you might be the first.”

“I thought you had no Sight,” Pengolodh said, smiling.

Quennar’s smile was gentle. “I do not. Some things in this life are certain.”

They rounded the bend into the street that opened onto the King’s Square and paused. “I hope one of those things is the certainty of seeing you again,” Pengolodh said quietly.

“I would be remiss to allow you to drop out of my life,” Quennar murmured. He looked up the long street towards the high-ceilinged hall that towered at the end of it. “I expect I shall be doing as exciting as you, but I would be grateful if you would tell me of your time.”

Pengolodh nodded. “Perhaps you might also let me accompany you into the wilds, when I tire of the city.”

Quennar’s smile was unusually bright this time. “Sharp mind, sharp body. Besides, I need someone to watch my back.”

They clasped arms, and Quennar surprised him by pulling him forward and embracing him lightly. “Now go,” he said as he pulled back, “You do not want to be late.”

/

Three months into his new job, Pengolodh was sitting at his small desk, angrily scratching out a note to one of the other scribes. His mind was not on his task; rather, he was thinking of the conversation he had had the previous night with his mother.

She had been acting oddly for some time, and he had finally angrily asked her to just spit out whatever she wanted to say. For once he was surprised; she asked if he was courting his former teacher.

While he spluttered indignantly, his mother continued that many people were starting to suspect it, what with the amount of time they spent together.

“We hardly spend that much time together!” Pengolodh had snapped.

“Usually masters and students spend almost no time together after their apprenticeship has ended, dear,” his mother pointed out. “Now, I am not saying I disapprove too much, but you know your father-”

“Really, mother, we are _just_ friends. That is all.”

But the fact that maybe it _wasn’t_ all was part of what made Pengolodh so frustrated. It was the fact that he couldn’t get a proper read on his own feelings, let alone whatever Quennar might be feeling.

So distracted, he barely noticed another of the scribes hurrying into the room until a crowd began to grow around him. Curious and hungry for a distraction, he set his quill down and joined them.

“We will be leaving in the next few weeks, in waves,” the young man was saying. “Nobody knows where exactly we are going, but the king is promising a sanctuary, permanently safe from the enemy!”

“Wait, I missed your beginning,” Pengolodh said, “Who is going where?”

“We are all going,” the young scribe told him. “The whole city is moving, under the orders of the king. They say he has created a sanctuary that will keep us safe from the enemy.”

Pengolodh blinked, shocked. “But nobody knows where we are going?”

“The rumour is the king received a vision from Ulmo himself,” the young scribe said, leaning in conspiratorially. “This explains where the king has been these past few months, you see? Building this new city.”

It made sense; the king had been mysteriously absent for the past few months. Everyone had assumed he was visiting his father, but apparently not.

The junior scribes all went suddenly silent as a senior scribe walked in. “I assume you have all heard the news, then,” he said with an amused smile. “The king has given everyone a day off, and reduced working hours until the move is complete, to give everyone time to set their affairs in order. You had all best be off home.”

At home everything was a rush of activity and purpose; Pengolodh and his family had been assigned to one of the groups who would be first to leave, and there was a lot to prepare. Pengolodh excused himself early for bed due to the hysteria, but the next few days were taken up with little else but work and packing. It was a great relief when he received a message from Quennar, asking to meet on one of the balconies along the seawall they so favoured.

Quennar was wrapped in a thick cloak when Pengolodh found him on the balcony. When he came closer, Pengolodh could see all his attire was meant for the outdoors, travel clothes and thick, hard-wearing boots. “Are you leaving for Gondolin so soon?” he asked.

Quennar looked at him; there was a deep sorrow in his eyes. “Pengolodh…”

The realization hit like the wall of an ocean wave. “You are not coming to Gondolin,” he said, his voice choked.

“I cannot box myself in, bury my head in the sand and forget the danger that haunts us,” Quennar said quietly. “I could not live with myself if I were safe while others fought day by day for survival.”

“But you have been safe,” Pengolodh said sharply, “You have been safe, here, why should it be different?”

“I have long considered leaving for more embattled quarters, where the enemy is faced on a daily basis,” Quennar said. “I stayed in Vinyamar because most of my people, those who follow Turgon, stayed here.” He paused, and the admitted quietly, “And because…I did not want to leave you.”

“You leave me now,” Pengolodh whispered.

“I know, and it will hurt; I would not if I could. But my soul would wither, and it has done enough of that already.”

“Where will you go?” Pengolodh asked, looking down.

“To the people of the High King, in Barad Eithel.” Quennar hesitated, then reached out and gently touched Pengolodh’s cheek. “Do not be too sad, dear heart. If we fight, we can defeat the great enemy, and then we may live whatever life we choose.”

“And when he is gone?” Pengolodh asked, looking up. “What will you do when there is no enemy left to fight?”

“Return to you,” Quennar said simply.

They looked at each other for a long time, saying nothing. Was this, Pengolodh wondered, a pledge? It was an odd one if it was, and it brought him no joy. “And what if there is no defeat but ours?” he whispered after a time.

“I will wait for you in the Halls, as much as I am able,” Quennar said softly. He ran one strand of Pengolodh’s hair, the silver dull in the grey light, through his fingers. “Only do not fear, and carry hope in your heart, and you will have strength to see you through until we meet again.”

Pengolodh could only nod. They stood together for a long time, until Quennar took Pengolodh by both shoulders and drew him forward to press a soft kiss to his brow. A gasp, almost a sob, escaped Pengolodh’s lips, but he kept still and steady. Quennar drew him close and whispered into his hair, “I must go; the people I travel with leave at midday. May fate keep you safe, my Pengolodh, until I can return.”

Pengolodh pressed his face into Quennar’s warm chest for a moment, then pulled away. “May the stars watch over your road,” he murmured, looking up into Quennar’s storm grey eyes.

Quennar cupped Pengolodh’s face in both his hands. “You remember I said, some things in this life are certain?” Pengolodh nodded minutely. “Well, this is one of those things; we will see each other again.”

There were no tears, when Quennar walked away. They came, as he knew they would come, later, on the march to the new city, in the dark hours of the night. But as he watched Quennar walk away, through the tiny gate back into the city, there were no tears.

A single gull called overhead, bleak and lonely in the still air. The waves crashed onto the beach far below.

_To touch sorrow is to take it for one’s own_ , Pengolodh thought, and drew his cloak tighter around him.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There was going to be a happy ending but I ended up not writing it, so apologies for being mean! Well, I suppose this allows you to come to your own conclusions, anyway.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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